


Pitter

by easton



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Loss of Virginity, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easton/pseuds/easton
Summary: “I’ve always enjoyed seeing you on the ice, Dylan. You’ve grown a lot these last couple of years.” Dylan had noticed him before, too, standing behind the glass during games.





	Pitter

A harsh storm put the roads in miserable conditions, even for midwinter Michigan. The parking lot of their home arena had long turned off its lamps, leaving only the headlights of  idling cars. Dylan’s parents weren’t among them; Waterford wasn’t close on nights like that, and they both had work in a few short hours.

Hockey parents bonded on the bleachers. They trusted each other to fill in the gaps. Usually, that meant a lot of carpooling. That night, Dylan would be staying in Birmingham, until his mother could pick him up the next morning.

When boys poured out of the bus, sluggish and stiff, JR nudged Dylan towards a familiar truck. As they got closer, Dylan could see that the man behind the wheel looked much like an older JR, filled out where his son was still just tall, with dark eyebrows and a close-shaved head. They threw their bags in the back and tucked themselves into the cab, Dylan sitting sideways in the back row of seats. “My mom wanted me to thank you again, Mr. Zajczyk,” he said.

Mr. Zajczyk snorted and caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. “John’s fine, kid. How’d the tournament go?

“Fine. We got fourth,” JR responded, slumped over in the passenger seat.

“Out of how many?” John—John  _ Sr., _ Dylan guessed—asked.

“Twenty-four.”

“Not too bad.” They both fell silent after that, although the air didn’t feel strained. JR was never too chatty on the bus, either. The roads were empty at that hour, for the most part, and the drive didn’t take long. Their house wasn’t the biggest in the neighborhood. Still really fucking nice. A lot of neutral colors, dark wooden decor, very little clutter or mess.

“You boys hungry? There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge,” John said, flipping on a few low lights. Dylan glanced at JR for guidance. They were good friends, after playing on the same teams for a couple years, but Dylan didn’t think he’d ever been at his house before. The Zajczyks weren’t ones to open their house for hosting get-togethers or whatever. Dylan felt like an intruder on some secret place.

JR just shrugged and dropped his shoulder into Dylan’s side, guiding him into the kitchen. They microwaved some Little Caesars and ate at the counter. John disappeared into the living room or somewhere. There was no reason to be tense.

Upstairs, JR pulled some extra toiletries out of a closet and pointed at doors, “Bathroom. Guest room. My room. G‘night.” 

“Are you seriously ditching me already?” Dylan said. He’d been so tired on the bus it’d felt like his eyes were going to fall out, but now that he was on solid ground, a switch had been flipped, one that left him antsy and on edge.

JR clearly didn’t feel the same. “It’s  _ five in the morning, _ Larks,” he begged. Dylan let him off the hook. 

The bathroom was pristine, unsurprisingly, everything tucked away in cabinets. Dylan wasn’t sure what to do with his borrowed toothbrush afterwards, before hesitantly tossing it into the the empty trash bin. The shower knobs seemed prohibitive at first, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to wash away the grime of travel. The heat helped him sleep, sometimes, too.

After, he wrapped the towel around himself, grabs all his things, and made his way to the guest room. The hall was silent.

In the guest room, Dylan pulled on his boxers and lied in the bed. It was comfortable, warm. He turned onto his side, then his back, before remembering how uncomfortable a position that was. It went on like that for a while, Dylan unable to settle. Was he thirsty? It felt childish, to be running through a checklist before lying down for good, but once the idea was in his mind, Dylan felt beyond parched, his throat too dry to sleep through.

A glass of water would be fine, though. Cold, from the fridge.

It’s in the kitchen that Dylan ran into John again. He froze, then burned red when John raised his eyebrows at him. Of all the things to feel cautious about, putting his clothes back on before wandering around the house seemed pretty basic, in retrospect.

“Mr. Zajczyk,” Dylan stuttered. “I’m sorry, I—uh… water?”

_ “John,”  _ he corrected again, before stepping back and gesturing at the fridge;  _ all yours.  _ He opened a cupboard, handed Dylan a tall, clear glass, and watched as Dylan filled it and brought it to his mouth.

The water felt flat and stale against Dylan’s tongue. He swallowed and said, “Sorry if I, uh, kept you up.”

John shrugged and leaned against the counter. “I work the night shift. Leaves me nocturnal, even on my off days.”

“Ah.” Dylan would’ve felt dumb if he didn’t finish the water now, with John watching him so closely. Did feel dumb, when he choked on the next overly ambitious gulp. The coolness of the water felt stark against the heat he could feel blooming across the rest of his face. He wiped furiously at his chin with the back of his empty hand, but another followed closely behind him, wiping at his mouth. The way John pressed his thumb against Dylan’s lip did little to dry it. His throat hurt.

“I’ve always enjoyed seeing you on the ice, Dylan. You’ve grown a lot these last couple of years.”  _ As a player, _ was what people usually meant, but in this case, Dylan thought. He wasn’t sure, didn’t have a whole lot of experience picking up that sort of thing yet. It burned Dylan alive, that someone like John would notice him. Dylan had noticed him before, too, standing behind the glass during games.

Dylan was spared from having to try and figure out what to say next by John slipping his thumb past Dylan’s parted lips. He inhaled once, held it, then hesitantly brought his tongue up to meet skin. It didn’t taste like much. Clean. After a few still seconds, Dylan closed his lips around the ball of John’s thumb and sucked lightly. He watched, wide-eyed, for a flicker of approval. John had dark eyes, hard to read, and he wasn’t any chattier in the kitchen than he was in the car. Dylan’s grateful when he finally said, “Get my fingers wet.”

He licked over John’s pointer and middle finger as the rest lightly gripped his jaw, cool thumb petting back and forth. His heart pounded, thinking about what John could do with those wet fingers. Dylan didn’t think it’d work like that. 

He got so worked up thinking about _that,_ thighs trembling, that it was a shock when John’s fingers only went to his nipple, squeezing it until Dylan gasped then soothing the hurt away, getting it wet with Dylan’s spit. His chest was still a little soft from baby fat, and having it fondled made Dylan squirm, an overwhelmed crackle in his already hazy mind. How long had he been awake by then? Twenty-one hours? Twenty-two?

John leaning down to claim his mouth, too, was both better and worse. Dylan had kissed a few girls before, but it’d never led anywhere, and he hadn’t been nearly this naked. Still, he thought he liked it, with John leading and him not having to worry about his teeth or his nose. Had to like it, the way his cock was nearly all the way hard, even as John’s stubble burned against Dylan’s soft skin in a way the sparse wisps he had to shave away surely didn’t. 

Wide fingers grazed his side, squeezed his hip, before tugging his boxers down around his thighs. Dylan kicked them rest of the way off. “Get up on the counter,” John said.

“What?”

“Counter.” Two hands squeezed his lower thighs. John could lift him, if he wanted.

Dylan raised himself up, let John rearrange him. The granite felt cool against his lower back, along with his achy damp nipple. John fit his hands in the bend of Dylan’s knees and pushed them apart. A comically shy part of Dylan wanted to lower his hands and cover himself, but the image of John fully clothed between his splayed legs, the plain vulnerability, left Dylan paralyzed. It left him so hot, he didn’t know how he was ever going to function again.

John looked away, leaving only one hand on Dylan as he rifled through a drawer, drawing out a small bottle of liquid. In a moment of playfulness, he winked and said, “Don’t tell Junior.”

God, Dylan didn’t want to think about JR right then. Did John fuck a lot of people in his kitchen? 

Or just his wife. Was there even a Mrs. Zajczyk?  _ God. _

It got hard to worry about anything when a wet finger pressed lightly against… against his  _ hole. _ He tensed, even though he knew he shouldn’t. It wasn’t like it felt bad yet. Just weird.

“Anyone ever touch you here before?” John asked, voice even, rubbing soothingly.

“No,” Dylan croaked, and then in another wave honesty, “not anywhere.”

John raised an eyebrow at that. “No? Nothing? You kids’ road trips are different than I remember ‘em.” 

Then he slid his finger tip up into Dylan, just to the first knuckle. It didn’t hurt, but Dylan breathed hard anyway, stomach trembling. John worked patiently, until the stretch went past strange, into something that pressed a tiny whimper out of Dylan’s throat.

John hushed him; even their breathing sounded loud in that kitchen. He took in a steadying breath and hesitantly reached for his cock, resting sore and heavy against his stomach. John murmured, “Yeah, kid, go ahead, touch yourself.”

Dylan did, head lolled back. It was so much different, so much  _ better,  _ than when it was just him alone in his room. He felt like he was drowning, spit pooling in his mouth when he forgot to swallow. 

Apprehension peaked again with John took back his hand, replacing it with the solid thickness of his cock. It was like being at the peak of a roller coaster, the fat head just barely poking in and making Dylan squirm against it. “Please,” he begged.

John took his time, opening up a place for himself in agonizing fractions of an inch. It was still too much. Everything. Dylan’s mouth hung open, silent, as his eyes watered. Then, it was being taken away again, and Dylan clenched again, although not in fear. The process started over again, John fucking slowly in and out of him. Dylan felt tight everywhere, limp, couldn’t imagine doing anything but taking it. He barely even jerked himself, not interested in rushing this along, even as that undeniable storm built in his stomach.

It wasn’t obvious John was holding back until the end, when he growled deep in his throat and rearranged himself to get that last bit of leverage, hands gripped on Dylan’s hips. He thrusted quick, hard enough to make Dylan yelp until he shoved his own hand in his mouth. It hurt deep, and a seed of doubt fluttered his mind, one that couldn’t take root before John pulled out for the last time and came across Dylan’s thigh.

He hadn’t even thought about asking for a condom.

John’s hand replaced Dylan’s own on his cock. It stroked him slowly as he twitched, then focused in his head, massaging the underside and glans until Dylan shot off quick, his entire body shaking.

The sink ran next to a head. John wiped him down with a lukewarm towel, helped him stand on wobbly legs, and said, “Get some sleep. Did the kid show you were everything was?”

 

With an orgasm out of the way, sleep wasn’t hard to find. Still, he was the first to wake up the next day; his mother took off after lunch to pick him up.


End file.
